


5 Times Moriarty's Tentacles Were Naughty, and One Time They Were Nice, (But Not In Any Chronological Order.)

by JessamyGriffith



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Humor, M/M, Other, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-29
Updated: 2011-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:32:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessamyGriffith/pseuds/JessamyGriffith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 part +1 series - Moriarty has eight tentacles along his back, which can retract into his body. Doesn't that sound all cool and villain-ish? Unfortunately for the Great Consulting Criminal, they have minds of their own...<br/>Based on a kinkmeme prompt. One anon suggested that the tentacles were mostly autonomous and could do things without Jim's control, which led to much speculation on what they would get up to, which led inevitably to crack.<br/>References to episodes abound. Spoiler-y for Season one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Barts, March 30th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty has eight tentacles along his back, which can retract into his body. Doesn't that sound all cool and villain-ish? Unfortunately for the Great Consulting Criminal, they have minds of their own...

5 Times Moriarty's Tentacles Were Naughty, and One Time They Were Nice, But Not In Any Chronological Order.

 

Moriarty is SO excited.

It had been a breeze, flirting with that wet Molly Hooper, using her in order to meet Sherlock face to face. Sherlock Holmes. He hitches up his underwear, which are getting more uncomfortable the more he thinks about him.

 _I wonder if he'll know it's me/Of course he'll know!/Oh boy oh boy oh boy!_

The tentacles on his back give a great throb, as if of displeasure at the trend of his thoughts.

 _Piss off!_ He thinks angrily. _Not even you lot can spoil this moment._ They vibrate, then subside sullenly.

He pokes his head through the door, playing 'Jim from IT.' All awkward and starstruck, except of course, he isn't really playing. Starstruck, that is. _Look at him. Perfect!_

Sherlock looks him up and down with that cool gaze of his, and dismisses him. _Dismisses him!_ “Gay.”

 _Oh like you're not, for all you act so aloof! How could he not know it's me/Thank god he didn't guess/Who is Mr. Clever Trousers now huh Sherlock?_

 _Utter GLEE._

Moriarty throws a quick glance at that upstart nobody John Watson. He moves away from Molly and between John and Sherlock possessively, hovering over Sherlock's shoulder. _MINE._ Palming the paper with his phone number, he knocks over the metal dish, and puts it back with the note underneath.

“Sorry! Sorry!”

John turns away _(in embarrassment at his pretended clumsiness?)_ and suddenly starts, straightening up quickly. He steps hurriedly away from Moriarty and folds his arms, turning his back.

 _Jealous much, bitch?_

It is perfect. His satisfaction and lust are like candies melting in his mouth. _Oh, Sherlock. What I wouldn't give..._ His tentacles again pulse warningly against his back, distorting the fit of his tight t-shirt. Uh oh, must dash before things get out of... control.

He arranges a quick after-work drink with Molly _(wish it was with you, dearest Sherlock)_ and says goodbye, looking longingly at the man.

“It was nice to meet you.”

There is no response. Sherlock only tightens his lips and steadfastly looks into the microscope. Disappointed, Moriarty takes his leave.

 _Until next time, darling boy._

Once beyond the doors, he hurries quickly to the nearest W.C. to get himself in hand.

***

“...and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain.”

Molly looks at Sherlock with furious disbelief and pain in her face, shakes her head slightly, and slams out of the lab. Sherlock watches her with an air of real puzzlement at her actions.

John grimaces slightly. “Charming. Well done.”

Sherlock turns to him. “Just saving her the time. Isn't that kinder?”

“Kinder?! No, no – Sherlock, that... wasn't kind.”

There is a pause. John shrugs a shoulder.

“You're right though. A poofter, through and through.”

“You agree then?”

“Well, in spite of the fact that he could hardly tear his eyes away from your gorgeous self, he did manage to find time to pinch my arse.”

Sherlock looks surprised. “You, too?”

“Yes! Wait... he goosed you, too?”

Sherlock taps a finger against his lips. “Moves quickly, does Jim from IT. How did he manage that, I wonder?”

“Yes. Poor Molly. Well, maybe it was kinder to tell her.”

“Indeed.”

The detective and the doctor look at each other.

“You're surprised he pinched me?”

“Not at all, John. You know I think you are quite fit. And... you think I'm _gorgeous?_ ”

John smiles his sweet quirky smile, eyes crinkling with amusement and fondness. "Vain."

***

Moriarty tears the headset off and throws it across the room.

“Damn it. Damn it. Damn it!!!”

The bug he'd placed in the lab had recorded the conversation after he'd left. He is bloody FURIOUS.

“You!” he spins in a circle, trying to reach the spots on his back where the tentacles come out. “You did this!”

The tentacles withdraw away from his groping fingers into indentations, and quiver. He could swear they are _giggling._


	2. Eurostar - Early March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of my 5 +1 series about Jim Moriarty and his naughty tentacles. He has eight, originating from his back, though they can withdraw inside. Chronologically this chapter takes place before Chapter 1. Jim is on my way to London via Eurostar train, looking forward to meeting Sherlock and starting his game.  
> Prodigious amounts of swearing, but other then that, this is chapter is Gen-rated.

_Sweet Christ, if he had to have tentacles, why the hell did he have to get ones that were autonomous?_ Jim thinks grumpily. That's not how it worked in all the Japanese anime he'd seen. In those, the monster-men and tentacles always work together with terrible purpose. They are of _one mind_. But not his, oh no. It is infuriating. They are _pissing him right off._

What's worse, they are clever little bastards. He has to keep an eye on them all the time. Oh, he supposes there are compensations. On the rare occasions ( _oh so special those happy days!_ ) when he gets his hands dirty, he quite enjoys the look on his victim's/lover's/schoolmate's faces when he rapes/throttles/mutilates them. _You only get to see the real Jim once,_ he thinks, a jaunty smile transforming his face into something vulpine, all sharp points and teeth.

Well, except for Sherlock Holmes. For him, he has a few special surprises planned. He will see the real James Moriarty, and as for that pet doctor...

Moriarty props a chin on his hand and stares dreamily out the window at the blackness of the Chunnel walls racing past. The Leisure Select car is empty, save for him, booked specially. Moran is at the end of the car beyond the sliding glass door, on guard. Moriarty has complete privacy, as is his due. He is on his way to London, and has time to savour his plans, his game, and its recipient. _Sherlock, Sherlock._ His interest is ensnared by the consulting detective, Jim is enraptured by his mind. _As for the package…_ His tongue darts out to wet his lips.

 _Almost an equal/Could he be my match/Let's see, shall we/Will he like my game/Of course he will you are brilliant!_

His reverie is rudely interrupted by a shove on his shoulder. He turns with a snarl. "Couldn't you wait a fucking second, I was having a _moment!_ "

The dark grey mass of tentacles are swaying like seaweed by his shoulder. The tips of three quickly join to make a rude gesture, complete with movement and a squelching sound of slickness.

"Fuck you, _you_ are the cunt here, not me!"

Two of the tentacles turn to each other as if in amazement, one begins to pantomime sadness, drooping down. Two do the equivalent of miming a yawn, one stiffens in mock affront and the last two snap forward, grasp Jim's face and pinch his cheeks, shaking his head from side to side. _Oh, Jimmy, say it ain't so!_ In spite of himself, he grins widely, and knocks them away.

"Jesus Christ, enough already. Just let me finish my drink, right?"

Immediately one appendage reaches out and pulls the cart with the remains of his luncheon and his fresh gin and tonic on it towards him. The cart bumps into his seat, rattling the china and knocking over the salt shaker. His drink is passed to his hand, and he sips, eyes narrowed in enjoyment.

His tentacles spread out, as though watching. He drags out the moment, getting his own back. The tentacles are practically vibrating with impatience. The ice cubes clack against his teeth and the glass is snatched away and slammed back on the cart hard enough to crack the glass.

"Oi! Do you mind? We can't be having that kind of behaviour! Jesus, people will think you can't act in a civilized manner!" Moriarty giggles at his own wit. _Him. Civilized._

The tentacles writhe and flick impatiently, directing his attention back to the travel chess board set up on the fold-out table. He heaves a huge put-upon sigh.

"Fine, God! I've seen five year-olds with more patience! I know it's my turn."

He scans the pieces and positions, and makes his move. The tentacles hover, a few gently tapping the table, considering. One flicks out and nudges a knight into position. Moriarty reaches out, pauses, and with a smirk moves his queen. A few more moves, and the game will be his. That's how it always goes. God, he needs a challenge. _Sherlock…_

 _I hope you are ready for the game, Sherlock/Christ what will he think of me/Doesn't matter you will have him/Yours all yours/And you will WIN/Like you always do_

There is a clicking noise as a chess piece is snapped down, and he focuses again. The tentacles are quite still and upright, except for one that is tapping the board in a manner that seems… well, smug. Moriarty looks down and freezes.

 _FUCK ME._

His brows snap together and he snarls, lips pulling back from his teeth, "You fuckers! You must have cheated!"

 _Oh, no, not US,_ they pantomime in glee, gesturing at the board. _Look. Just the way you left it. Except for how you failed to see the cunning trap we laid – see, just here - and you fell right in. Ha, ha, nyah, nyah, we win!_

Moriarty gives an inarticulate cry of rage, and knocks the board away, pieces flying everywhere. "Fuck you! I'm not gonna lose to _you!_ " He goes for the flatware on the cart. It's not there. A tentacle tsk-tsks at him, moving from side to side like a chiding finger. Another tentacle crooks at him - _come on then, if you think you're hard enough!_ His hands curl into claws and he lunges at the taunting grey mass.

\---

Sebastian Moran leans against the grey wall outside the Leisure Select car, listening to the noises within. He sighs. Why he ever joined up with such a freak-show is a question he ponders about every two days, which is when the boss has a little… incident. With himself, for god's sake. _Give me an honest nutter any day_ , Moran thinks, as the crash of chinaware punctuates the gasps and shouts.

 _OW! Ow! Stop that, you little fuckers! Where's the knife, where's the knife… Dammit! Let go of the neck tie, you're sliming it you wankers it's VERSACE stoppit! Gnnfff… guh, ptooey Fffttt! Yeah well you deserved it, try that again and I'll bite it off... Argh! No, NO, not the lime wedge again! My fucking eyes!! You...Mmph! Do you want me to salt you, do you WANT ME TO SALT YOU AGAIN YOU TOSSERS! …. I thought so. Fine. Now, let me up._

Moran starts upright as the door wooshes aside.

"Yeah, boss?" He carefully doesn't change expression as he looks down at the rumpled lime-scented figure. Moriarty has reddened eyes, a vivid contusion beginning to show on his forehead and a black pawn piece shoved deeply up one nostril. The dark eyes scowl ferociously up, daring him to comment. His mouth is firmly set in a tight line of aggravation. Moran casts his eyes downwards.

"I'll just get the tweezers, sir."

Moriarty nods as regally as possible in such an absurd situation and turns back to the train car.

His back stiffens, and his hands clench when he hears Moran's muttered, " _Again,_ " but Moriarty doesn't even reply. He is far beyond speaking.

 _GOD. Why oh why couldn't he have NORMAL evil tentacles?_


	3. The Proxies of Love - March 31rst - April 1rst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of my 5 +1 series about Jim Moriarty and his naughty autonomous tentacles. He has eight, originating from his back, though they can withdraw inside. What exactly do they want? Are they jealous of Sherlock?  
> Spoilers for The Great Game, swearing, the tentacles almost make it to second base.

_"This is about you and me."_

"We were made for each other, Sherlock,” the kidnapped man wrapped in Semtex says. The man's voice is tremulous with fear, but the intent behind them utterly sincere. Sherlock was _meant_ to be Moriarty's.

How much _fun_ Jim is having with his game. Sherlock is a fitting opponent, Sherlock is _wonderful_. Still always a step behind, but oh! so quick! Moriarty can’t get enough of him. It is hard, _so_ hard to restrain himself from a face-to-face meeting - but a distance must be maintained for the time being. It is part of the game. Thus - his proxies. The first one was irksome, they way she sobbed and distorted his words. This one, the young man is doing much better. Jim is abiding by his own ( _admittedly_ _whimsical_ ) rules. He let the crying woman go, and provided Sherlock can keep up, ( _oh keep up Sherlock! Do I need to give you another clue?_ ) he'll cut this one loose as well. After all, they had served their purpose.

And it is _oh so_ delicious, hearing Sherlock’s voice in his ear through the headset link-up. An ingenious system - the victims cannot ID who their kidnapper is by either face or voice. Via texting they relay everything to Sherlock: their lips, his message. _To dear Sherlock._

Sherlock responds, and that sultry baritone curls into his ear, going straight to his groin. "Then talk to me in your own voice."

Jim lets his eyes close a moment in glee. He imagines the detective is standing just behind him, the long slim body pressed against his back, his voice murmuring into his ear. The damp edge of his tongue tracing the outer edge and tugging away the earpiece, Sherlock's hands curling around his waist, unfastening his trousers...

Wait. What? _No._

His neck twisting away from the slimy touch on his ear, Moriarty wrenches the tentacle away from his pants, squeezing it painfully hard. “Jesus! What are the fuck are you doing, can’t you see I am BUSY here!” he grates out from between clenched teeth. With his other hand he quickly taps his last message, [ **Patience** ,] and hits Send.

A third grey appendage pops free from his tucked-in shirt, rumpling his suit jacket up even more as it reaches around to tug his thumb painfully away from the tentacle. He yelps, and slaps at it.

A fourth quickly nudges the notebook PC he is using to text out of reach of his arms and brings up Internet Explorer, overlaying the program he has been using to communicate with his proxy. _Bookmarks - > Tentacles -> Wish List Folder...._

“What is _wrong_ with you? If you don’t want to piss me off even more, then you’d better... ”

Moriarty makes an abrupt noise something between a gagging cough and a goose honk as twinned tentacles abruptly thrust up his nose. Eyes watering, he reaches up with curled fingers to yank them away but his wrists are caught.

Led by the nose ( _ow ow OW you shits leggo ov me!_ ), Jim is abruptly bent over the notebook PC screen ( _fucking OW!!_ ). A grey tentacle tap taps the screen – _Look here at this. Stop playing with Sherlock and play with US. Or get us some toys. Like these. We want. We TOLD  you before._

“GOD. You theriouthly want me to buy a fucking Japanethe thchoolgurl doll right now? _Right now_? And what the fuck ith that! It lookth like a piethe of thcreaming meatloaf and a gay rabbit!”

 _It’s Domo-kun and Usajii_ , the tentacles tap out on the keyboard sulkily. _We like them. Also, we want..._

“Fuck the toyth! Fuck Godzthilla and that pink kitty shite! You aren’t getting ANYTHING unleth you let Daddy _work!_ ”

Abruptly the tentacles set him free. His nose is unplugged with a _pop! pop!_ Tears dripping down his face from his watering eyes, nose running, he grabs the PC away. His team is in place; there's a third pip to play, and there's no fucking time to waste on internet shopping for crap Japanese toys.

The tentacles droop in disapointment, then stiffen. Moriarty is absorbed in composing his instructions for Moran, and doesn’t notice the determined way the tentacles rub each other, and withdraw back under his jacket.

***

“This one is a bit defective. Sorry - she's blind.”

Moriarty speaks into his headset, the old lady relays the message. He leans back in his desk chair, a sharp smile all over his thin face.

 _Broke my own rules with this one/ she's actually hearing my voice/ just one degree closer to you, Sherlock/ Hope you appreciate the gesture/ letting you in/ soon you will be trapped/ in my arms/ just us together/ God I am so HARD now_

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock's voice, with a degree of tension that was absent from the previous calls.

 _Yes, ask me that again, say it like that when I have you under me, Sherlock, oh, soon._ Jim's hands rub up and down his trousers, thumbs passing teasingly close to his groin. His lids squeeze shut in a pulse of unadulterated lust as Sherlock's deep tones roll over him. That voice. _Oh yes, yes. So close..._ His tongue darts out to moisten his lip, as he imagines Sherlock brushing his mouth over it. _Oh, God..._

"I like to watch you dance... _OOH_!" Moriarty gasps, as a sly tentacle abruptly rubs once, twice, three times against his erection. Oh shit, he's coming, coming, the front of his pants growing warm and damp as he gasps his release. The old lady faithfully copies his words, down to the drawn out exclamation. _Oh. My. God. What will Sherlock think_? Moriarty abruptly fumbles and terminates the connection, vision washed in red fury.

“You... you... “ He is literally unable get any other words out. A vein throbs in his temple, and he abruptly wipes away a trickle of blood from his nose. The guilty appendage waves - _buh bye_! and ducks out of sight.

***

 **[** **Raoul de Santos, the house-bo** **y** **. Botox.** **]**

 _Oh, well done, my dear!_ thinks Moriarty. He connects the phone for the last time, just one more listen to that sexy voice.

***

“Hello.” Sherlock, terse.

“Help me!” A wail in a cracked old voice.

“Tell us where you are, the address.” The words fly out, relieved the puzzle is solved but still tense.

“He was so... his voice... "

“NO! No no no, tell me nothing about him, _nothing_ _!”_

“He sounded so _soft_ _._.. " There is a burst of noise, then a dial tone.

“... Hello?”

.

.

.

***

Jim is frozen in disbelief. “I can’t... I can’t believe you just... “

The tentacles make a smug rolling movement, and flip his mePhone into his lap. _Believe it, bitch,_ they gesture rudely. _Because we just DID. Obviously. Now where are our fucking toys?_

“But... I wasn’t done listening to Sherlock yet!” Jim practically shrieks, voice rising to a shrill pitch. He is actually beginning to hyperventilate in his distress.

 _Oh oh oh oh/ He’s going to think I cheated/ stoppit Jim don’t start blubbing for God’s sake/ Oh oh oh shiiiiit...._

If the tentacles had eyes, they would have rolled them. _For fucks sake!_ Instead, they throw themselves into the air dramatically and flop all around Moriarty with wet splats. _God, if we'd known you were going to be such LITTLE GIRL about it..._

***

Sherlock is sulking. “Well, obviously I lost that round, though technically I did solve the case. He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once he put himself in the firing line."

***

 _Not quite, Sherlock. But a good deduction nonetheless._

 


	4. The Root of the Problem - Thailand, December 18th

**Where the Trouble Began**

 

***

‘It takes two to get one in trouble.’’

    _Mae West_

 _***_

 _Thailand, December 18th_

Jim Moriarty got out of the grid-locked fluorescent-pink taxi on New Petchburi road, sweat breaking out almost immediately. He viciously toed the mangy street-dog sniffing his Berluti shoes away and strode off, cranky. God... why he had agreed to meet his contact in this grotty section of Bangkok, he couldn't even guess, except that Chanarong Manit was supposed to be a genius at building computers of unprecedented capabilities from scavenged parts – fast, powerful and bespoke in the way that only illegal money could buy. Jim needed some new toys to keep track of his new heartthrob _(my crush!/ so clever/ could keep my interest a long long time!)_ – a lanky, brilliant consultant in London who was proving to be very, _very_ interesting. The smell of the city assailed him – the heat-baked concrete, the turbid canal over which he was crossing the bridge, lotus flowers piled on spirit-houses, dog shit. He pulled his immaculate kerchief from his pocket and blotted his brow. A decent Irish criminal mastermind shouldn't have to put up with this – the heat was intolerable even in December.

Ahead was the Pantip Plaza, Mecca in Thailand for those with interests in computing. He pushed his way past the red-faced tourists and lithe natives to a dingy building set behind the shopping mall anonymous and dirty. He was melting in his dark suit. Sweet Jesus... even on the third floor, it was intolerable. The building was stifling, crammed with electronics and piles of pirated CDs and Games. It was claustrophobic. He turned down a narrow corridor filled with posters and merchandise of a dubious nature, and was abruptly pulled to a halt. He looked over his shoulder in annoyance.

“What?”

No one was near him, but looking down, he saw that one of his grey, slick tentacles had slipped free of his clothes and was grasping a metal cart piled with Thai-dubbed Japanese hentai animation.

“Oh, for fuck's sake. Now is _not_ the time... ”

A second tentacle reached forth and snatched a DVD and thrust it into his hands, vibrated its urgency and desire, and slid into hiding again. He squinted at the badly-printed case. The front depicted a busty frightened girl with improbably large eyes being strategically squeezed by tentacles, one of which had disappeared underneath the fringe of a skirt she wore. _For fucks' sake..._

“สาวเซ็กซี่ขลัง – Sexy Magical Girl?”

A man poked his head from a narrow shop front and saw him holding the case. “You want it? It's 25 Baht.”

“No, I don't want it,” said Moriarty crossly, flipping the DVD back into the bin and turning away.

“Two for 35 Baht! Good price!” said the man, and the tentacles squeezed against his back, urging him. Fuck this. He had better things to do.

“No,” snarled Moriarty, glaring, and walked away. Against his back, the tentacles quivered and stilled in disappointment.

 

***

 

 _Tokyo, February 26th_

Jim should have known it would be a mistake going to Akihabara. Japan was after all, the historical home of tentacle erotica, and just yesterday his own slimy additions had forced him to buy a Hokusai print of a fisher-woman and an unlikely amorous octopus – bloody exorbitant! - by sliding his platinum card onto the counter while he was still talking with the Ginza shopkeeper about protection money. But dammit, he had contacts to meet, business to do, tributes to collect - not to mention the alliance with the Yamaguchi-gumi to maintain!

Moriarty jumped, and cursed under his breath. “Fucking stop _pinching_ me, you shits!” he growled. A scrawny mouth-breather of a geek looked nervously away from the robot model he was contemplating, and edged away from the crazy foreigner.

All he'd wanted was to pick up some extra miniature listening devices. The ones in the morass of shops out the west exit of the station underneath the tracks had some beautiful ones, the size of grains of rice! Instead he'd been chivvied, through painful nips on his ass _(left cheek - turn, right cheek - turn, both cheeks - straight ahead here FUCKING OW!)_ to the fourth floor of some sort of department store of small shops. Moran was trailing him idly like a dangerous shadow with incongruous shopping bags, carefully not smiling at his boss's strange twitches and curses.

Spread before him in all their doe-eyed resin plastic glory was a display of things called ElfDolls - rather well-painted, he noted absently, but still creepy in their blank-faced vacancy.

“This is what you got me here for? For dollies?” Moriarty hissed savagely under his breath. The tentacles stirred. Two crept up his collar, pinched his ears and turned his head sharply to the left.

He was looking at a large rack of doll clothing and…huh... _parts._ Heads, eyes, even breasts, all interchangeable, according to the sign. _Jesus. What kind of freaks would want... ?_

 __  
Another jerk on his ears turned his eyes to a glass display case full of dolls. _Yeah. My freaks would want one..._ A tentacle flipped out and stuck slickly to the glass in front of a doll couple - a dark-haired effeminate schoolboy doll was shyly giving a note to a blushing schoolgirl doll in some out-dated looking sailor-style uniform. Two others joined the longing appendage, and made various obscene gestures concerning the plastic figures. _Oh, ferchrissakes… no. NO WAY IN HELL. Sherlock will never be interested in a man who collects dolls!_

“We are leaving now,” Jim said. Scarcely had the words left his mouth than his head whipped to the side with a *crack*. He reached up with a shaking hand and touched the red welt left on his cheek. “Excuse me? You just… you didn’t just... ?!”

He yipped at a particularly hard ass pinch. “Right! _That is it!_ Daddy’s had enough of your fucking tantrums now!” He shouldered his way out of the shop past a bemused Moran and ran to the noisome single toilet stall.

“Uh, boss… don’t you maybe think you should…” Moran started, only to have Jim whirl on him, wrench open his jacket and wrestle the packet of salt Moran was required to carry these days from his inner pocket.

“Oh, you’re gonna get it, you slimy little fuc---hrghrrs!” Jim was abruptly pulled backwards by a tentacle wrapped around his neck into the W.C. Adding insult to injury, his expensively shod foot slipped into the squat toilet set in the floor. The door was flung shut with a slam.

Moran leaned back against the door with a sigh. Behind him, strange howls and curses emanated and violent thumps rattled the door. “Bad sushi,” he explained helpfully to a nervous couple waiting their turn. They nodded politely in puzzlement and moved off, possibly to call security.

Moran rapped softly on the door, behind which relative silence had fallen. “Boss?” he said softly. “We gotta split.” He eased the door open.

 

Moriarty was savagely biting a tentacle, holding it still for the salting, bubbling imprecations of revenge around it. Another, panicking, whacked futilely at his head. Two other appendages were frantically trying to brush the burning grains of salt from their slick surfaces and splashing water from the wash basin everywhere. The remaining four were frantically patting around the toilet set in the floor, seemingly looking for a pipe to wrench up and use to batter Moriarty. Jim’s suit looked like he’d been snowed on, paper was strewn everywhere and both bespoke shoes were soaked. His eyes, as he caught Moran’s, were crazed and furious.

Moran was careful not to let any reactions except smooth professionalism show on his face, but only by dint of biting the inside of his cheek until it hurt. He stretched out his hand for the salt packet. After a hesitation, Jim handed it over, brushed off his hands, and plucked forth a wad of toilet paper that was stuffed in an ear.

“Behave!” Moriarty snarled in a tone that would have done credit to Moran’s old harridan of a grandmother. The tentacles subsided and slowly withdrew, twitching in aggravation. Jim nodded grimly, dusted the salt from his shoulders and strode down the corridor, hands shaking with fury. Moran shrugged,  picked up the duty-free bags and moved to his place just behind the boss’s shoulder, eyes scanning for any trouble ahead.

Neither man noticed what the tentacles shoplifted and stuck into the carrier bags.

***

 _Luxembourg, March 6th_

“Oooh, Christ,” Jim groaned. He squinted at his watch. 11:35 am local time. _Bloody jet-lag._ He straightened up with a whine from his sprawl on his desk. He couldn’t bloody believe it! He’d actually fallen asleep at his office here! Fecking melatonin – didn’t help at all. He reached out to the brown bottle of pills, squinted at the blurry label, shook it and tossed it in the bin. Useless.

He stood up, rolled his shoulders, and stretched. Christ, he needed a shower. And a change - he couldn’t believe he slept in his suit. Everything felt scratchy and ill-fitting.

“Good morning, boys!” he sang out. “Time to rise and shine! Insufficient unto the day is the evil thereof!” Immediately his jacket and shirt rucked up and six tentacles uncurled, stretching sluggishly. Jim grinned, and squeezed one affectionately. “You guys are jet-lagged worse than I am, huh? Well, let’s get some food in here.” He hitched at the waistband of his trousers - really, they were binding something fierce - and pressed the intercom. “Sebastian! You old wolfhound! You up? Can I get some coffee, and a sandwich in here? Something fast - just grab something from the cafe down the way.”

“Sure thing, boss,” came the hoarse reply.

“You all right? You sound like you’ve got a cold.”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I just... I’ll get you that coffee right away!” There was a clatter, and the line disconnected. Jim looked at the phone dubiously, then shrugged. He needed to take a piss.

“Right, back under!” His tentacles flipped him a rude gesture and slithered away.

Passing through the office space, Jim noticed the sidelong longs from his flunkies -  whispers behind hands, grins and even a couple of smothered sniggers. He slowed, and swept the room with his darkest look. “What is so fucking amusing? So I slept in my suit...yeah yeah. It’s not that funny, so _get back to work._ Or I’ll kill you later!” He tagged the last with his outrageous smirk, and was satisfied when people avoided his gaze and turned back their computers. A few more choked, but didn’t look up again. Jim grinned and went to the men’s room.

Humming a jaunty tune, he unzipped and reached down. The tune abruptly strangled in his throat, as his hands encountered... _something not right._ Instead of his silk-knit boxers, he was wearing... panties. PINK panties. _Hipster cut, elasticized band,cotton_ some irrational part of his brain gibbered. With a white cat in a pink bow waving, with the message “TTYL ;)”

“What have you done?” he breathed. He thought back to Moran’s strained voice, the illegible bottle of pills on his desk, the amusement of the office staff. He couldn't remember falling asleep... why couldn't he remember? _Oh, god._

 _“What have you DONE?”_

 

***

 

The secretary squawked something in German as he wrenched the rolling chair away from her PC. Scrabbling for the mouse, he opened the minimized window - Facebook. And there, in full horrible color was himself- lying on a floor in a suggestive pose, wearing a Japanese schoolgirl’s sailor uniform, with a grey, slick tentacle lifting his skirt and a second rubbing his (padded) chest. He groaned, and was only dimly aware of the abrupt exodus of the office staff, making good their escape before the boss had another little ‘moment’.

He dodged to another desk and looked. Another picture, this time face-down, skirt lifted and the panties half-tugged down, exposed a pearly white ass cheek. Tumblr, the photo being spread amongst the deviant population like wildfire. LiveJournal, a shot of him in the office chair, legs spread, tentacles wrapped around his arms and legs like bonds, another posed near his slack mouth. MySpace. And...

 _Oh shit oh fuck/ NO no NO/ NOT THERE/ What the fuck do I pay these assholes for/ Using the net like this on MY time!!/ Fuck/ Oh  god, I don’t ask for much/ PLEASE_

Oh yes. A high-pitched noise come out of his mouth. _4chan._ A full manga-style photo-spread. Of Jim Moriarty. Caption - “He did it, Faggot! Tentacle Gay Cross-dress Rape!”

A small part of his brain noted that the anonymous comments were complaining about it being too soft-porn. Another part of his brain said, _‘Whee! I look SMASHING in a sea green wig, sets off my eyes!’_ The remaining parts of his mind that hadn’t abruptly burned out were full of a searing horror and fury. A drop of blood from his nose splatted onto the keyboard, and he inhaled.

***

 _AAAAAAAAAaaaaaaOOOOOOoooooooooooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaa_

***

“Merde! Quel est ce bruit?” said the smartly dressed barrista girl at the cafe. Moran joggled his paper cup, slopping the coffee.

“Christ,” he muttered. “That was the sound of a soul crying out in ultimate suffering,” he said to the barrista girl, taking his change, “and I’d better go take care of him.” He gave her a brief smile, and left. _This fucking job..._

***

It had taken several slaps, and handcuffing to an office chair before the hysterical Moriarty could see reason. The tentacles were prudently staying undercover. Jim’d come close to hyperventilating in panic, and could only keep repeating, “What if he sees it? _What if Sherlock sees it?_ What will he think of me?” and generally carrying on like...well, like an overwrought Japanese teen girl. _Not that he's ever,_ ever _mention the comparison to Jim..._

Moran gripped Jim’s head between his large hands and forced him to look up. “Boss. Listen. You know what to do, you always know. You are Jim fucking Moriarty, and this little thing ain’t gonna hold you back. Now. Get on the phone, and do what you gotta do.” He shook the smaller man slightly, until Jim’s eyes focused.

“All right. Okay. FUCK.... right. Put me on speaker phone. Dial the number. Mother shit FUCK...”

***

“‘Allo? Who is dis? Tabarnouche, it is 6 in ze fucking morning!”  
“Gerard. This is Jim Moriarty.”  
“ Monsieur Moriarty! My apologies. What is your... “  
“Shut the fuck up, you poutine-sucking _habitant._ I want you to do it.”  
“It?”  
“Yes, ‘IT’ you numb-nut snowman! There’s an infection, and we have to stop it. Before Sher... before it spreads further. So - do it.”  
“Yes, sir.”

***

In a small weathered house overlooking the Hamilton Sound in the village of Seldom-Come-By, a phone rings. A young woman in a plaid shirt and toque picks up the phone, smiles, and turns on her computer.

 

***

 

“Sherlock! That’s MY computer you are abusing!” John snatches the laptop away from Sherlock, who is curled up in his leather chair, and had just been slapping the side of the monitor as if he hoped to make candy drop out. “Hitting inanimate objects won’t help their function, I think you’ll find.”

Sherlock huffs, and flings his arms and legs out like some pyjama-ed starfish. “None of my message boards or forums are working. I can’t even access my own website! I’ve nothing to do, John. The tedium may make me... creative.”

“As in redecorating the flat with a different color paintball? No, thanks. Anyway I’m sure it’s... hmm.” John’s forehead crinkles, as he pecks away at the computer. “I can’t log into my blog. Or... Twitter. Or... ”

“None of the message board sites are up. I’ve checked.”

“Yahoo news is still working.”

“It would!”

“Yes, fine. It says...ah, here.  ‘Massive DDOS attacks take down social networking sites all over the world in a domino effect. Experts say the source of the attacks is from China. Other sites affected include Amazon, Sony’s online game servers, Disney, CNN, 4Chan and Etsy in this seemingly random hacker attack... “ John looks up with a faint smile. “I wonder who broke the Internet?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and huddles deeper into the chair. “Call Mycroft and ask him. I'm sure he is somehow responsible.”

***

 _Oh, Jimmy, what have you done?_


	5. Playing the Game - England, April 6th

5 times Moriarty's Tentacles Were Naughty, and 1 Time They Were Nice

* * *

Somewhere in England.

April 6th.

* * *

' _Just have fun. Enjoy the game._ " Michael Jordan.

But remember -

' _You have to learn the rules of the game. And then you have to play better than anyone else.'_ Albert Einstein.

Why-ever would I do that? Oh, because -

' _It's not so important who starts the game but who finishes it._ " John Wooden

* * *

The tiny caravan had seen better days. The cracked Formica table, the bubbling printed-wood panelling on the walls, the faded 70's era fabric prints – normally it would make the fastidious Moriarty shudder, but somehow, he thought, somehow it made a fitting setting for his new toy. His puppet.

John Watson.

Kneeling on the nubby carpeting, hands swelling from the constraint of the cable tie holding them together behind his back, John looks straight ahead, lips firmly pressed into a thin line.. He doesn't speak. There is no need.

 _Oh, Johnny/ of course you know who I am/ obvious even to a dullard like you/ but still too stupid too see this coming mm?/ you're no fitting match for me/ not a match for HIM_

It had been a simple matter to snatch John as he was on his way to see that boring little bitch. And now, now...

 _Why John why?/ when Sherlock is waiting for you at home/ you shouldn't do that to him/ anyway he will be MINE_

Moriarty paces slowly around his prize. "Not much to look at, are you," he observes pleasantly. "I mean, for god's sake. You're not even forty yet, and you're wearing my granny's cardies! Have some fucking pride, man. You are in no way – mentally, physically or _sartorially_ a match for him. And yet he keeps you near? What _does_ he see in you?"

John doesn't reply, though the back of his neck under the sandy hair flushes slightly.

"Boring! Humane, mundane, inane, brain drain! And yet..." Moriarty pauses in front of John. "When I see you like this, it occurs to me that your mouth is not unattractive, even when you're pulling that face. I'd let you give me a bob or two."

John's eyes flash up him once, before he goes back to staring straight ahead. _Ah._ Moriarty grins his whitest smile. That one look... interesting. Mmm. It had clearly shown John's thoughts. Obvious, but interesting.

 _Try it on,_ was the message given in a searing glance. _I'd love the chance to show you exactly what my mouth can do._

 _You won't like it._

"Oh, did I upset you?" carols Moriarty in mock surprise. He moves around behind John. "Too bad. You are so not my type. I prefer them tall, dark and oh! So toothsome, I could... just... _bite!_ " He hisses the last word, as villains are wont to do, into John's ear, before straightening up.

"SEBASTIAN!"

There's a creak from behind, as Moran uncurls his long frame from the cramped bed. He pulls the curtain aside and glowers. "Boss. No need to shout, I can hear you perfectly well. From two meters away, even. Are we ready?"

"Yes, yes," Moriarty replies, flipping a hand carelessly. "Check the detonator on the vest, will you? Wouldn't want anything _untoward_ to happen to our dear Sherlock by accident, would we?"

John tenses. He hadn't known that Sherlock was going to be there in person. Idiot.

Moriarty drops Moran a wink, and Moran nods in understanding, hunching back to rest a knee on the bed and see to the battery-powered LEDs and wires on the vest. Of course the detonator isn't rigged to explode, in spite of Moriarty's ardent wish to see the doctor out of the way. In pieces, preferably. Tonight, all bets are off. Moriarty doesn't want to place himself in _actual_ danger.

"Do you really think this will work?" inquires John in a conversational way. "I mean, sociopath. Sherlock's not about to care that you've got his flatmate. He's a bit too involved in the game for that." His voice is a shade bitter.

"Nice try, Johnny, but we know that's not quite correct. You do matter to him, as irksome as that is to me. What better surprise? I can't _wait_ to see his face!"

"He will beat you."

"No he won't!" lilts Moriarty. He is so _happy._

"You'd better just kill me. If I get free, I will finish you. Whatever it takes."

Moran _tsks_ disapprovingly from the bed area.

"Kill you? Not yet, I have uses for you." Moriarty drops to one knee behind John, close enough to feel the heat of the other man's body. He pulls the earpiece and wire from the pocket of his perfectly tailored suit, and clips the end to the back of John's hideous shirt. He strokes John's hair away from his ear _really the man should get a haircut - no style at all!_ He rubs a thumb over the edge of John's ear in mock tenderness before working the ear piece in. "Now, you know what I expect, from the previous hostages. Once you're on, you no longer have a voice of your own. You are my very own little sound system, Johnny."

Moriarty's hands brush John's shoulders and fall away. He smiles at the back of the man's head. Oh, this will be so good. John stiffens, and then, unexpectedly leans back into Moriarty, slowly. His voice has dropped into a lower pitch.

"Thought I wasn't your type. Dull. Short. Mundane."

"You're not. Really." _Christ. What is this? I AM good._

"Then. Get. Your fucking hands. _Off._ My ARSE!"

John snaps his head back, trying to break Moriarty's nose, and the criminal twists sideways just in time.

 _What in fuck?_ Moriarty looks down aghast to see two of his fecking tentacles have crept out and are caressing and squeezing the other man's cheeks in a considering way. He hisses and reaches, but has to dodge once more as John tries to throw himself backward again. "Oi!" yelps Moriarty. "What do you think you are doing?" He can't tell if he's talking to his tentacles or John.

The tentacles support the other man's body and push him upright between the shoulders. A third snaps out to goose John, hard.

John's shoulders are tense with fury. "Get your hands off the merchandise. Or I will find a way to cut them off. You fucking _deviant._ "

Before he can even respond, the three tentacles writhe into a club and come down, hard. John's head snaps forward and he is knocked face-down on the grubby carpeting with a gasp, stunned. _Ah... finally._ Jim smiles softly, and strokes one tentacle in approval as they slip back under, tucking in his shirt on the way.

 _The tentacles are playing along. The doctor didn't see them, thank god... and at long last, we are working together in terrible harmony._

"Oh, nice try, Johnny boy!" Moriarty trills, getting to his feet. "I have so enjoyed our little moment together. But now... it's show-time!"

 _don't ever talk about us that way / Not a deviant / don't you threaten us / you with your small brain / you have no comprehension of what we can do / we will end you_

Moran pushes past Moriarty, carrying the vest. Reaching down, he grasps the collar of John's shirt and drags him upright again with a certain rough sympathy. "C'mon, doctor. Time to get dressed."

* * *

"Ciao... Sherlock Holmes."

"Catch... you... later."

"No, you won't!" Moriarty sings out as he leaves, the feeling of danger from the gun that Sherlock trained on him making his skin crawl deliciously. _You know you can't shoot me, I've got all my little people watching..._ The door closes behind and Moriarty twirls in happiness. YES.

OH. That went SO well.

Moriarty walks quickly up the corridor, away from the pool. So good. And finally, face to face with Sherlock! God, that man. Like a sex bomb. He giggles at the thought. _Bomb_. Can't wait to have him at my mercy...

Moriarty'd been a bit shocked when John had jumped on him, but really. Did they think he had only a lone gunman? He had several, and Moran waiting from a nearby vantage point with his air-gun, listening in.

 _Ah, Sherlock, my sweet / you should have realized one thing / when you play against me you play all my organization / how can one man keep up / my name is Jim fucking Legion Moriarty / you have no chance m'dear / we are many!_

And now, Sherlock would know fear. It would undermine his every thought, his every action. Move against me again, and I'll take John. Nothing is sacred. Give up. You'll see my way of things eventually, and then you can give up that drab little doctor _(you'd have to anyway I'd make you)_ and join Moriarty's side. Really, that unequal relationship had to be terminated. Quickly.

He skips a step in pleasure at the thought, and then pauses. Why not now?

Yes, why not just get the foreplay over and done with? _Sherlock, get rid of that awful pet of yours, I don't want him about while we continue our courtship._ And it _is_ a courtship – gifts, letters, puzzles, mayhem. And Sherlock loves it, or he wouldn't be here. Plus, if snipers aren't scary enough – _I've other resources._

 _Yes. Now.  
_

The tentacles twitch angrily against his back, but Moriarty ignores them. He quickly relays the change of plan to Moran, ducks up another corridor and waits while the snipers pin Sherlock and John down and prevent them leaving. He rests his head against the metal door and smiles to himself.

One tentacle pushes out and waves for his attention.

"What? Little busy right now," he snarls. A second appendage joins the first and pokes him.

 _\- Pay attention. Can we go swimming? We love fresh water –_ they mime.

"NO. For Christ's sake, no, you want everything! Dolls, porn - not everything is about you! Now get back under. I may need you."

The tentacles stiffen in affront and slither away. Moriarty shakes his head. _Of all the times – Okay._ Yes. Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock – this can't continue. It's not natural. He takes a deep breath, and pushes through.

* * *

"Sorry, boys, I'm SO changeable!"

Ah, he loved a good entrance. Moriarty spreads his arms out in a dramatic pose.

"It IS a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself – it is my _only_ weakness."

John's face – that grimace. Lovely. Sherlock is turned away - _oh, great backside!_ But not looking at Jim. That's not right. _Need to catch his attention._ Moriarty drops his voice to a cheerful threat and addresses them both.

"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't." He shakes his head disapprovingly at John and Sherlock. Unbelievably, they are still ignoring him. The eye contact they have – _no no, eye-fuck me, Sherlock, not that stupid John Watson!_

"I would try to convince you, but - " Jim laughs a little. "Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind." He shrugs, and spreads his hands.

John gives an infinitesimal nod, and Sherlock squares his shoulders and turns to face Moriarty, face pale, gun pointed.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours," Sherlock replies, and the muzzle drops, points at the vest of Semtex.

 _Interesting._

The detective's face is tense, waiting for a response. John's eyes never leave Sherlock's face, but Sherlock doesn't glance down. His attention is all for Moriarty. _Quite rightly._

At last. Would he really.. ? _Oh, but wait, Sherlock!_

Sherlock's eyes widen, then narrow. John's eyes flick from the gun, to the vest, then up to Moriarty and back to the vest. Then they lift again slowly to Moriarty. His eyes widen comically, and his mouth drops open slightly. His face is pale with shock.

 _recognize the threat I represent at last? / my uniqueness? / you have no chance, doctor._

Moriarty grins his most vulpine grin. Both men are looking thoroughly unnerved. He looks over his shoulder, to where two slick grey tentacles have slipped free of his shirt and are stretching out and up behind him. He shakes his head in mock reproof.

"Sherlock, Sherlock. You have no idea who... _what..._ you are dealing with. Boys, come on out."

He slips off the beloved Westwood jacket and drapes it over his arm so it won't crease as the other six tentacles ruck up the back of his shirt and unfurl lazily.

"Boys, I'd like you to meet the great Sherlock Holmes!" he sings out. The tentacles scarcely acknowledge the stunned detective, flicking a brief hello before turning away. Moriarty frowns slightly. "No need to be shy here, we're going to be good friends. Well, I say friends, but obviously you, Doctor, are going to die... " He turns to John with an evil smile which dims when he sees that the tentacles are coyly waving at John, with a few making appreciative gestures concerning the doctor's fine arse. _Christ, what awful taste in men they have..._

John is flushing at the obscene gestures, the red creeping up over his collar. Sherlock's eyes are flicking between John and Moriarty, mouth slightly open, and the gun is wavering in his grasp. "John... ? What the hell?" he breathes. "Are you... Wait a moment. Moriarty - did you just introduce us... to yourself?"

"No, I introduced just YOU, Sherlock, to... well, us. Do lower the gun, we can all play nice, mmm?"

"Sherlock!" snaps John, recovering his composure. "Don't you fucking dare! Those... things practically sexually assaulted me earlier! Just shoot him already!" But Sherlock's arm has lowered, and his face has that bright glow that John has learned to distrust so well.

"Tentacles... " the detective breathes in amazement tinged with horror. "But how... ?"

"Christ... now is _not the time_ , Sherlock," John groans. The laser dots are still dancing over Sherlock and himself, and John feels like he's wandered into a even more nightmarish version of Legend of the Overfiend. He's not sure what is going through Sherlock's head right now, but John is _very_ certain that he does NOT want to be tentacle-raped and killed by his... admirers. Or killed, then raped by them. Or killed by Moriarty. Or raped by... Moriarty. _Whatever._

Moriarty is thrilled at Sherlock's interest. _Well. This could be even better than he'd hoped._

"Dearest Sherlock. We've had a good little time with our game, haven't we? We -" He stops and brushes away an annoying tentacle from his ear. "We are meant to be together, you and I. It's obvious -" He bats away another tentacle that is chiding him.

 _\- no, not Sherlock, we like John's bottom and can we take him swimming? -_

He pinches it fiercely, and it flinches back. "Fucking focus, guys! Do we need the salt again? Sheesh." The two men watch this odd exchange, dumbfounded.

"What was I saying? Ah yes. It's obvious that only I can think on your level, Sherlock. Not to mention that at least I have good taste in clothes. We'd be the perfect power couple! The only thing that stands between us is your little... what? What the _fuck_ is so FUNNY?"

He shouts the last, because the detective's eyes are glistening strangely and he has an odd twitch at the corner of his mouth. Sherlock bites his lush lower lip hard. But it is of no use. John snorts a strangled laugh, and then he is howling with laughter, bending over and clutching his stomach. Sherlock's seldom-heard deep chuckle begins tentatively, and becomes louder, his face creased in incredulous amusement.

Moriarty clenches his fists and glances up. Of course. _Bunny ears_. Two tentacles are sticking up behind his head, twitching back and forth in a credible imitation. One bends and flops, then straightens. Moriarty drops the jacket and puts his hands on his hips petulantly. "Nice, guys. Retarded bunny? Thanks. I mean it. Thank you for your help. Thanks _so_ much. Okay, so we're just playing for now – we can be playful, Sherlock, but we can be deadly too. Just you wait until I... Shut up! Shut UP! Doctor, if you don't shut the fuck up, I _will_ KILL... "

But something else is wrong. The red laser dots of the sniper rifles, while never steady, are wavering and jerking and falling away from the detective and doctor, who are now utterly helpless. Sherlock is wiping tears away with the back of the hand still holding the gun, and John is making hiccup noises, practically sobbing with hilarity and relief. Howls of laughter can be heard distantly. The blood drains away from Moriarty's face, and with a sense of dread, his gaze lowers slowly.

One tentacle is waving rudely from between his legs.

\- _no, not like that,_ \- one indicates. - _shorter. MUCH shorter._ -

\- _yes, yes,_ \- waves another. - _that's better. Itty bitty._ -

\- _no, smaller!_ \- laughs one.

Three others mime shaking their heads sadly, while the others snigger at the tentacle between his legs, which has only the tip poking out from his groin now.

\- _poor guy,_ \- mimes one pityingly. - _such a small head on his man-tacle._ -

Moriarty tried to snatch at one, but they all whip away from his clutching fingers.

\- _unlike the head on his neck,_ \- agrees another. - _what is UP with that? -_

 _\- like a hard-fructose-sweet-thing-on-a-stick! -_

 _\- YES! -_ they all wave, and weave and dance away from Moriarty's frantic grabs.

"Damn it, guys... I promise I will get you the fucking dolly!"

\- _we have waited. Since before Christmas-gift-season we have waited._ -

"Guys? Guys, come on..." Moriarty is reduced to pleading. _In front of Sherlock._ His Sherlock, who is bent over with his hands on his legs, trying to catch his breath between giggles. The doctor has slid sideways, supporting himself on one arm with the other holding his ribs.

\- _no doll, no Sherlock. You had your chance. And you said you would kill John. We like him._ -

"No no NO. _He has to go!_ It's not all about what you want. Oh _COME ON!_ I _will_ fucking SALT YOU AGAIN!"

With a whip-crack of motion, two tentacles bind Moriarty's arms behind him. He gasps. "What do you think you're doi - _mmmpppghh!_ " Mouth abruptly gagged with grey, Moriarty squints his eyes and savagely bites down. The tentacle in his mouth squirms in pain, but stays put. The others shake sadly.

\- _Jim-host-Moriarty. You are wrong. It IS all about us. Both of you-us, but you are selfish. Now. LET'S SWIM, JIMMY._ -

Shaking his head _(no no nonono! no!)_ Moriarty digs in his heels, but the tentacles whip out, clutch the edge of the pool and begin pulling. Slowly, he is reeled across the slippery tiles, until with a muffled shriek he topples in.

* * *

From his hidden position in the viewing gallery of the pool, Moran covers his eyes. Oh, god. Jim. This is so far beyond bad, there isn't even a category for it. He heaves a gusty sigh, and looks down at the doubled over figures, the thrashing man in the water. _To the rescue again._ He touches his headset.

"Peters? Davis? Pull back your men. We're done for the night. No, you listen. Stop sniggering and do it now, or I will _find you later._ Yes, I thought that'd shut you up... Yes, the usual amount will be in your accounts, with a bonus paid in two months if you keep your fucking mouths shut. Got it? Good. Over and out."

Mouth grim, he flicks open his special case and pulls out the darts and the antidote. With practised movements, he loads his air rifle, takes aim at the blond-headed figure lying gasping unevenly on the tiles, and fires. John wheezes once last laugh and goes quiet. Quickly, Moran reloads and fires off a second shot. The tall figure of the detective wavers, goes to his knees like any large-game animal and then falls sideways. In a swift movement, Moran scoops up his case, and runs to the railing, swinging over and dropping to the pool level.

The tentacles have dunked the struggling Moriarty under water yet again, and wave a cheerful greeting at him.

\- _hi Sebastian! Don't worry, we've got this!_ -

He casts them a fulminating glance but strides past to check the doctor's pulse. It is beating strongly, but his breathing is stertorous. He pulls the cap from the syringe of antidote - better safe than sorry, tranqs were only really meant to be used on large animals. Even with the antidote, Sebastian and Jim would be long gone before these two woke up. Besides, he had no orders to kill them. Quickly he administers the drug to the doctor, then the detective. He straightens, walks to the side of the pool and looks down. "Boss?"

Moriarty is still gagged, and is looking wrecked. He's had another fucking nosebleed, and it looks like he's crying in fury - so hard he can scarcely draw breath. The tentacles are happily treading water, splashing for all the world like a fresh-water cephalopod. Moran chews the corner of his mouth a moment, and then snaps his fingers at the tentacles, pointing at his feet. Obligingly, they waft Moriarty to the pool's edge and heave him out with a soggy splat.

Moriarty is half-drowned, pissed and verging on hysterical. "Let him up," Moran sighs. The tentacles withdraw from Moriarty's mouth and hands sullenly, but he only lies there, tears and blood trickling down pathetically. His face is pressed to the tiles, looking at Sherlock's unconscious, still-smiling face.

"Oh god what did you do oh fuck me CHRIST why did you guys do that oh SHERLOCK fuck what did you DO..."

 _Christ, teenage girls have nothing on him,_ thinks Moran to himself morosely. He hated having to do it, but some things needed to be done. He takes the dart he had concealed in his palm, bends over and jabs it into the smaller man's bicep. Jim doesn't even flinch - the man is too far gone in his misery, and only relaxes, eyes slipping shut, mouth lolling against the floor.

The drugs don't work well on the tentacles - something in their strange anatomy makes them resistant - but Moran has a little time before he has to administer the antidote, and he is going to use it. He regards the tentacles with a thunderous look. "You. What did you think you were doing?"

The tentacles twitch at his tone. - _you know. We wanted the doll. He never lets us..._ -

Moran cuts them short with a chop of his hand. "Never mind! I don't even care. Find some way to fix it. I'm getting tired of this shit."

The tentacles scuffle. - _aw. We were just playing. Really. We didn't mean it._ -

Moran groans. " _Fuck._ You guys deserve each other. I've never known two beings that behaved so fucking childishly. But this has gone far enough. Make it right with him, and it'll be all right with me. You want to make me angry?"

The tentacles droop. They consider. No, they do not want to make Sebastian angry.

\- .. _.all right._.. - they mime.

Moran smiles the benign smile of a barracuda. "We understand each other then. Come on. You can help me shift him." He gives Moriarty his injection. The tentacles writhe around his limbs, two to each, and use Moriarty's own arms and legs to propel him to his feet like some peculiar marionette, his head drooping like a drunk's. Moran slings an arm around the boss's waist, and together all ten of them - tentacles, Jim and Sebastian - move toward the exit and the waiting car.


	6. Happy Endings, April 7th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this fill - Death of a sea bird by tentacle, and implied future non-con of minors.

Moriarty is waiting at the Liverpool to Dublin docks. It's six am, the sky is just beginning to lighten, and he is freezing his arse off. The motor launch is being prepared to take him to Dublin. Back to old Ireland. He needs.. some time. He scuffs his bespoke shoes on the concrete, and kicks a broken bottle into the water. A nearby gull glares at him. "Oh, fuck off," he mutters.

Heedless of his expensive suit, he sits at the edge of the pier, dangling his legs, shoulders slumped. Moodily he stares at the dark, odoriferous water. He'd throw himself in, but... he'd never see Sherlock again. _And ruin a perfectly sexy suit._ Fuck. How had he ended up like this? First that goddamned lab accident which had given him his extra... appendages, but was he lucky enough to have tentacles that listened to him? No, not Jim Moriarty! What the hell had he ever done to deserve - _okay, well he'd done a lot._ He wasn't exactly a nice guy.

He bites his lip. His face is puffy from the bout of drowning and hysterical weeping he'd been prey to at the pool. Oh, Christ. All he'd wanted was Sherlock. Sherlock to play with. Maybe fuck. A little. _Okay, well, a lot. Like, constantly._ Who was he kidding, for Sherlock he was a gay as a nine bob note. And he could have had him! He had been so close! And if it hadn't been for his fucking autonomous tentacles, he'd have a lovely little tranquilized Sherlock all of his own to smuggle to Ireland!

The fecking things. They want, they want... they were like fucking children. 'We want tentacle anime, we want a Japanese school girl dolly, we want to go swimming with John 'Sweet-cheeks' Watson... _John fucking Watson!'_

And just because he'd wanted them to _wait_ , wait until the game was over before he got them their toys, they had done their best to sabotage his great game! _And_ they said he was selfish! It wasn't fair! All he'd wanted, all he'd _planned_ for was Sherlock, and now... and now...

A tear rolls down his pale unshaven face and plops on his trousers. A second joins it, and a third. He is too miserable and drained to even raise a hand to scrub them away. _That's going to leave salt stains,_ he thinks. _I was saving this suit for our first dinner together... me pulling down Sherlock's gag, feeding him by hand, shaking a chiding finger at him when he tries to bite... it was going to be so_ fun... Moriarty's breath judders in his chest, and he begins to weep in earnest. _It's all ruined. I'm fucking humiliated._

Behind Moriarty, leaning against an orange shipping container, Sebastian Moran is waiting, aviator glasses reflecting grey light. He clears his throat meaningfully. Moriarty doesn't notice, nor does he pay attention when his eight tentacles push up his suit jacket and slither out abashed. They twitch at Moran.

 _\- what? -_

Moran gives them a significant nod, sliding a glance at the hunched miserable curve of Moriarty's back. _Take care of it,_ he reminds them with a wave of his hand. _You don't want to make me angry, do you? Make it RIGHT, you little shits._

Two of the tentacles roll the gestured equivalent of a heaved sigh, and reach up to start wiping the tears from Moriarty's face, jerking a little at the salty content.

 _\- ow -_

With a jerk of his arm, Moriarty knocks them away, and rubs his face on his sleeve. The tentacles confer. Beside Moriarty's leg, two pop up, and begin to pantomime.

 _\- look look jim-host, see! We are puppets see we here are criminal and we here are we, look how we beat the criminal and take his all money bang bang! Ha ha! Bang! Bang? -_

Moriarty turns his reddened streaming eyes away, only to be confronted by two more tentacles, who hold up a bottle cap.

 _\- observe jim-host you see this round thing? We take it in one arm... like so... and go blah blah ca dabra and then! Oh! Where did it go? Gone! Oh wait... no, there it is, behind your EAR! -_

"Just fuck off. Leave me alone," says Jim in a low dispirited voice. He closes his eyes to the sight of his hated appendages. Tears continue to stream down his face, and the tentacles are getting twitchy and frantic. They wave at Moran, who blows a disgusted breath and turns his face to the brightening sky.

"Not getting involved," he breathes. "You fix it. Or I will make you _so sorry."_

The tentacles wave around in disarray then freeze. Moriarty, eyes still closed, hears a *crack* sound like a whip and a startled squawk, cut off. Something curls around his wrist, opens his hand and something warm, feathery and wet drops limply into it. He opens his eyes, lashes wet and spiky. A dead seagull. The stupid tentacles are waiting expectantly, like some goddamn cat hoping for approval. He pushes the warm avian corpse away roughly, and it tumbles into the water. _Fucking things._ His dreams of impressing Sherlock, kidnapping Sherlock are in ashes, and these goddamned _things_ can't even comprehend what it means to him -

The tentacles rummage quickly in Moriarty's jacket and come up with John's wallet which they had pick pocketed while they'd been feeling his arse up. Scattering plastic cards like confetti, they find John's drivers licence. _Ah. Perfect, though they hated to..._ They reach into the heedless Moriarty's inner pocket to appropriate his Montblanc pen. Quickly, they scrawl a moustache on John's picture and show it to Moriarty. He only looks through them, lost in wretchedness.

 _\- fuck!_ \- The tentacles are really worried now. _\- okay, okay... yes, that picture! -_

They snatch at a photo John had kept in his wallet, a candid photo of Sherlock and himself together at Angelo's. John is laughing, head down and eyes scrunched shut in amusement, and Sherlock is looking at him with bright eyes, lips parted slightly in a soft smile. The tentacles rip it in half, hesitate and stuff the John-piece back into the wallet. Tenderly they nudge the Sherlock half of the photo into Moriarty's view.

He looks, and his breath catches. _Sherlock never looked like that at me. And he never will. Oh, why not me, Sherlock...?_ He presses quivering lips together and turns his head away, but a sob tears loose, and then he draws his legs up, wraps his arms around his knees and buries his face in sodden wool.

 _\- no no nononono! Jim-host... jimmy don't cry, we're sorry -_ The tentacles pat his back, his head, his shoulders. _\- we promise we promise just don't cry anymore jimmy please! -_

"He's all I wanted, and you ruined it!" Moriarty wails, voice muffled. "Don't say you're sorry, it's no fucking _good!_ You can't fix it!"

 _\- no no jimmy we can't take it back we're sorry. We can help. We promise... we will. -_

"You were supposed to help me from the start," chokes Moriarty. "See how well that went."

 _\- oh jimmy. -_ The tentacles lift his chin, and smooth his hair. _\- we are so alike, you and we. All we wanted was quid pro quo. -_

Moriarty gulps a breath. "Quid pro quo. Really."

 _\- yes. You wanted Sherlock, we wanted the schoolgirl dolly. so... -_

Moriarty sniffs, rubs his face on his knees, and straightens his back. "So... what you're saying is... that if... if I get you that fucking Japanese doll... you'll really help me? Really?"

 _\- yes jimmy. We will help you, and he won't stand a chance. Once we are working together, both getting what we want... just don't hold out on us okay? If we want something... -_

Moriarty's breath catches. "You're fucking not kidding me, are you? Guys... that would be... you _promise?"_

 _\- pinky shake on it jimmy -_

Moriarty snorts wetly, but extends his little finger. A tentacle tip curls around it, and they shake solemnly. "I promise too. No holding out." The tentacles begin to wag in relieved excitement.

Moriarty jumps to his feet, beaming hugely. "If you help me, really help me I... I promise I will even kidnap a Japanese school girl! Just for you. Well... us... but mainly you."

\- _OH! -_

The tentacles ripple ecstatically at this, and then turn Moriarty around hurriedly, and begin shoving him towards Moran, whipping down to pull on the ground to hurry him. Moriarty laughs, high and happy. "Fuck's sake, you slimy bastards, slow down!" But he is smiling as he swears lovingly at them.

Moran walks forward to meet his boss. His face is imperturbable, but behind the aviators his eyes are crinkled in pleasure. He nods at the tentacles, who wave shyly at him.

\- _see we fixed it -_ they sign behind Jim's back. - _don't be angry anymore, it's all good -_

Moran's mouth quirks up, but that is the only sign of approval he gives. He passes Moriarty a packet of tissues and a new mobile phone.

"Boss? The launch is prepared. Are you ready?"

Moriarty claps his hands together in joy. "Am I ready? _Am I ready!_ Let's go, Sebastian! We have plans to make! People to see! Consulting detectives to molest! Well, defeat and kidnap first but still... Oh! The things we'll do!"

"This way, then, boss." Moran guides Moriarty to a large sleek boat. "What's the destination?"

"Oh Dublin, Dublin," replies Moriarty distractedly, as he climbs down into the boat. "And then... Sebastian, help me out here. Where's a good place to find bus-tours of Japanese tourists? I need one. Maybe a few. Okay, yeah, a few."

"You don't want to find a tour in Dublin?"

"Christ, no, not where my house is! Though Dublin would be better off. I fucking hate tourists. _Cameras._ " He shudders dramatically, and then snorts a laugh. The tentacles are wrapping around the railings and pulling him to the prow. "Yeah, all _right_ guys, let Sebastian talk already. I'm going."

Moran thinks. "How about Vancouver? Lots of international traffic, lots of tours." The tentacles wave frantic agreement.

 _\- yes yes we like misty weather! All those rivers too! -_

"Why a bus tour, boss?"

"Oh, we'll just hijack a school tour. Let my tentacles have their choice. Like a box of chocolates."

The tentacles shudder lasciviously at the thought, then stiffen as another idea occurs to them.

\- _jimmy! We have a thought! It doesn't have to be just a Japanese school girl though we like the uniforms -_

"Yeah?" asks Moriarty cautiously. "What, then?"

\- _If you kidnap a boy too then we ALL will have fun! A nice tall one? With blue eyes! And pale skin!_ -

Moriarty closes his eyes a moment, mouth opening. "Oh, Christ, you guys... Jesus... oh. _Perfect."_

All eight tentacles wrap around Moriarty and hug him. He smiles widely, stroking a hand over one softly. "You guys... You are so sweet sometimes."

They squeeze him once again, and unwind. _\- you too, on occasion. Can we do it now? -_

Moriarty eyes the prow. "Um. Last time, we got really wet. Soaked. And you hate salt water."

In answer, they prod him forward. - _but you like it_ -

Sebastian Moran grins widely and relaxes, slouching against the pilot house as Moriarty, giggling, clambers over the railing of the prow, plants his feet and grips. The tentacle twine around the railings. The boat is moving away from the pier, heading out across the Irish Sea. Moriarty's voice drifts back faintly.

"Okay. I'm ready. You won't let me fall?"

\- _of course not, jimmy. We've got you -_

And Jim Moriarty releases his grip and leans forward into the wind, smiling his widest, happiest smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY DONE. This was my first fill on the sherlockbbc kinkmeme. GOD.  
> I plead guilty to insanity. And huffing paint or something... why why WHY brain?

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt at http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10038.html?thread=49765430#t49765430

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Where It's Always $18.95](https://archiveofourown.org/works/694824) by [Iwantthatcoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat)




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